A Different Kind of Justice
by LAXgirl
Summary: After being captured, Jaime discovers Tyrion plans to exact revenge on him for his role in Tysha's rape in a very unconventional way with the help of an unwilling Brienne. AU set sometime after "A Feast For Crows"


I have absolutely no explanation for how or why this story came to me. After reading "A Feast For Crows," Jamie and Brienne have become my handsdown favorite characters.

**Warning**: I do not own "Game of Thrones"/ "Song of Ice and Fire" in any way. Do not sue me. I have no money. Seriously. This fic also contains possible spoilers for "A Dance with Dragons" and mention of rape. Rated M for a reason.

**A Different Sort** **of Justice**

It had happened so fast. One moment he and Brienne had been aboard a ship bound for the Free Cities in search of Catelyn Stark's other missing daughter, Arya. The next, their ship had been set upon by corsairs not even a day's sail into their journey across the Narrow Sea towards Braavos. The sellsails - Jaime discovered soon after the crew of their ship, the _Lady's Grace,_ was overwhelmed and taken - were part of Daenerys Targaryen's fleet. The Dragon Queen had brought them with her across the Summer Sea to reclaim her birthright.

Before either he or the wench could comprehend what was happening, the eastern sailors had swarmed their ship, killed its crew and taken them prisoner. Apparently the Targaryen girl had had the foresight to set a blockade of ships up along the eastern coast to catch any highborn lords or ladies seeking escape from the wrath of her invasion in the Free Cities of the east.

Jaime had fought Daenerys's corsairs back as fiercely as a one-handed knight was capable of. He was proud to count five enemy sailors dead by his sword. But for as much as he'd improved his sword skills over the last year with the help of Illyn Payne, it had not been enough to fight off the hoard of men.

Brienne had faired slightly better than him Jaime was begrudged to admit. She'd fended off the hoard of salt-toughened men better than any other knight Jaime had fought beside and had sent just as many sellsails as him down to feed the crabs. It was only when two men rushed her at once and a third snuck up behind her and smashed the pommel of an Ibbenese saber against the back of her skull that the Maid of Tarth was finally taken out of the fight. Jaime remembered little of how the corsairs had disarmed and bound him, but he knew it was almost immediately after he'd seen the ugly, freckled maid he'd come to call his companion go down. Such a strike would have crushed any lesser man's skull in. Against the Maid of Tarth, it managed to send her sprawling face forward onto the deck, unconscious.

Jaime still remembered the flash of bright red blood as it began to well from the spot the corsair's saber had connected against her head and seep through her straw-colored hair. The obscene color of red the hair around her injury darkened with still made Jaime's stomach clench with a inexplicable storm of emotions.

After Brienne was knocked senseless and himself trussed up as helpless as a harvest goose, they'd both been dragged below deck of the corsair ship and curtly informed by its captain in garbled Common Tongue that they were now captives and could expect to be promptly ushered to King's Landing, seat of Daenerys Targaryen's new queendom, for ransom or execution. The captain didn't seemed sure which fate the Dragon Queen was more likely to bestow of them. Nor did he seem to care. He left them prisoner in a dark room reeking of urine, sweat and several dozen other stenches Jaime had no stomach to try and identify. Whether the sellsails actually knew who he was or just took him to be some lordling trying to escape the inevitable sack of the Mother of Dragon's invasion force, Jaime could not say.

For four days we locked in that windowless, rocking room. At least Jaime guessed it was four days by the frequency a heel of bread and mug of small beer was thrown at them. The wench hadn't been able drink or eat anything those first two days her head injury plagued her so. With more worry than he liked to admit, Jaime had waited in the darkness for Brienne to regain consciousness. The closest she came to doing so was the occasional flutter of her eyelids and a hollow groan of pain. Several times he'd pressed the rim of a cup to her chapped lips and urged her to drink despite her semi-aware state. Each time Brienne feebly shook her head and refused his offerings. Jaime suspected her head injury made her nauseous. Any liquid he did manage to coax down the stubborn maid's throat immediately returned several minutes later in a violent gush that soaked the front of her salt-stained tunic. Such awkward attempts to aid the injured maid and get her to drink were usually accompanied by series of dry heaves so powerful Jaime was sure the wench was about to choke on her own innards as her body strained to expel them onto the floor between them.

Any other man would have been repulsed and sought a spot as far away from the ill woman as was possible, but Jaime stayed close beside her. He felt it only right after the way Brienne had tended him after he'd lost his hand to Vargo Hoat's men. Jaime tried to convince himself that he stood such close vigil over Brienne because she was his company and only hope for escape should the opportunity present itself. He told himself he wanted the wench to be ready in case they needed to make a stand against their captors. He refused to acknowledge the stab of anxiety that went through him each time Brienne moaned in distress or curled around herself on the filthy floor, cradling the back of her crushed skull.

"We will make it off this ship, wench," became the refrain of his mantra each time Brienne drifted close enough to consciousness to make Jaime believe she could hear and understand him. He often found himself wanting to talk, even if it was only to himself. The stinking sellsail ship and its crew reminded him too much of their time with the Bloody Mummers. The only thing Jaime had to be thankful for was that no one had come at him yet with drawn steel and their eyes set on his remaining limbs. He refused to acknowledge the irony of their situation - how he and Brienne had cleanly switched roles since their last captivity together with himself as the reluctant nursemaid and her as the injured companion.

"I made a promise to Catelyn Stark and her bloody Brotherhood Without Banners that I'd find her wretched whelp and help you bring her back to her," he told Brienne more than once to help keep the loneliness and fear at bay. "I don't wish to have to go on alone should you decide to make our task harder by dying. You're the one that convinced me to follow you after the Hound. This was suppose to have been your quest, not mine. Nor do I plan to quietly stretch my neck out for the Targaryen girl's headman once we reach our destination. I mean to see to it that we both fulfill our obligations to Lady Stoneheart with our lives intact."

Brienne never answered him, but Jaime liked to imagine he was able to ease the worst of her pain until she was able to sink back into unconsciousness with his reassurances of escape.

They arrived at King's Landing sooner than Jaime would have hoped. As soon as the ship docked an escort of Queensguard - made up of men from half a dozen free nations - came onboard and dragged Jaime and Brienne from their lightless, floating cell. From the corsair's ship they were then dragged to the Red Keep's dungeons, through streets lined with the Dragon Queen's banners, and separated. Jaime hadn't seen the Brienne since.

That had been a fortnight ago, at least by what Jaime could guess by the timing of his meals. Each time a meal was delivered through the slot in the door he demanded to know what was going on and when the new queen planned to summon him, but the goalers never answered. Every day Jaime also asked about Brienne. He demanded to know where she was being held and what was being done to her. But as with all his other questions, he received no answers.

_Brienne_…

Was the wench being held somewhere in the same dungeons as him? Had they ransomed her back to old Lord Selwyn for her weight in sapphires like Vargo Hoat had once wanted to do? Had she recovered from her head injury yet?

Was she even still alive?

He found his thoughts often wandering towards the homely maid as he sat in the darkness and stared at the ceiling of his cell. With each meal of hard bread and rancid tasting water Jaime's worry increased a little more. He knew Brienne was stubborn and strong and not likely to die from a bump to the head. But not being able to see the maid with his own eyes and know that she was well tormented his thoughts in a way he didn't fully understand.

Jaime told himself such irrational worry was to be blamed on the loneliness and darkness of his cell. With no news of the outside world to sustain him all he had was his imagination, and he had never been much of an optimist. Dark thoughts had often been his companion. In any case, why should the ugly wench be of such concern to him? Brienne had proven herself as capable a knight as any man. He counted her as a skilled swordsman he could trust to stand beside him in battle. He had given Oathkeeper to her as his last ditch attempt to regain his honor. He trusted her in a way he had not another person for a very long time. He respected - and dared he say even _admired_ - her for her stubborn honesty, bravery, and sense of loyalty. He enjoyed their now almost friendly exchange of insults, and often looked forward to being in Brienne's company even if they only rode together in comfortable silence.

But for all he'd come to appreciate in the wench and more, Jaime still could not make himself understand why his worry so often strayed towards Brienne when he sat in a damp cell himself and was more than likely doomed to share the same fate as her. It was almost queer how little Jaime cared about what happened to himself compared to his worry he felt for the awkward, hulking maid he'd met so long ago in Riverrun.

Jaime, unfortunately, had no more time to dwell on his confused feelings for the Beauty of Tarth as the faint echo of footsteps caught his ear. They were coming closer down the hall. He could hear them approaching through the thick planks of oak separating him from freedom. It was too early yet for his jailors to be delivering his next meal, and the footsteps were different. He detected several sets of feet instead of just one, their pace heavy and purposeful. He also thought he heard the sound of something heavy being dragged against the rough stone floor as well.

Weakly, Jaime forced himself to his feet to meet his visitors. It would seem he would finally know what his captors planned to do with him.

There was the heavy jangle of iron keys on the other side of the door, the loud _clack_ of the lock's internal tumblers and pins being pushed aside, and then the weary groan of rusted hinges as the door swung inwards into the cell. Jaime had squinted against the flood of torchlight that rushed into the cell. He had been in darkness so long the firelight made his eyes sting and well with tears. Against the glare stood a small dark figure flanked by what Jaime thought looked to be two massive guardsmen in the corridor. Jaime recognized the gaoler from when he and Brienne had first been dragged into the Red Keep's dungeons. The jangle of the gaoler's keys rang obscenely loud in the close space of the cell as he hurriedly stepped away from the door and gave what Jaime assumed was suppose to be some awkward attempt at a bow to the small figure behind him.

"There you are, my lord," he rumbled as he shuffled backwards out of the way.

The smaller figure stepped closer to the doorway and Jaime was finally able to make out the features of his visitor.

"Tyrion?" It had been some time since he'd last seen his brother, but the imp's stature was unmistakable as was ragged stripe of flesh bisecting his face where his nose had once been. He immediately recognized his little brother, although the stare Tyrion greeted him with from his mismatched eyes held a cold look in them Jaime had never seen before. They had not parted on good terms when Jaime last saw Tyrion and helped him flee the Red Keep's dungeons and their sister's wrath. Jaime should have said he was surprised to have Tyrion of all people call on him, but strangely he was not. In a queer way it seemed right that Tyrion should be the one to meet Jaime here. They had separated ways in the wretched darkness of a different level of these same dungeons. It seemed only right that this was where they should reunite now.

_Just like the big happy family we are, _Jaime humorlessly thought. Their branch of the Lannister family was so wreathed in darkness, sin and despicable deeds a dungeon seemed a fitting place to bring the wayward remains of their family back together.

"Good morrow, Jaime," Tyrion greeted. His tone was unreadable. The imp stepped lightly into the cell, taking care to avoid the stinking bucket in the one corner of the cell. Jaime noticed the fine silk doublet Tyrion was wearing, emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of Daenerys Targaryen.

"I see you have made it high into the Dragon Queen's good graces," Jaime lightly noted. He wasn't quite sure how to talk with his brother just yet. He still remembered their parting words after he'd saved Tyrion from Cersei's headsman. He still remembered the sting of Tyrion's hand when he'd told him the truth of Tysha and the hurt and betrayal he'd seen in his younger brother's eyes as he'd turned away from him to follow Varys. And Jaime also remembered the imp's confession of killing Joffrey at the young king's wedding feast. Even now, Jaime didn't know how he truly felt about his dwarfish brother and who of the two of them should feel more guilty towards the other.

Tyrion gave a thin smile. The gesture pulled the edges of his scar into a grotesque snarl. "Indeed I have, sweet brother. After helping Lady Daenerys return to Westeros to regain her birthright and avenge her family, I have risen high within her council."

"A noble achievement, especially for one as stunted as yourself," Jaime observed.

Tyrion's face darkened. The ruined remains of his nose flushed a plum-colored red. His green and black eyes narrowed and studied Jaime with ill-concealed contempt. "Indeed. Daenerys rewards loyalty and service with respect, position and wealth - more than I can say those of my own family ever did."

"So that's the reason for your visit then? To parade your new position and power in front of me while I remain the girl-queen's prisoner?"

Tyrion offered Jaime a tight-lipped smile. "In part," he admitted. "But you should know that one of the conditions of serving Daenerys was her promise that _I_ would be the one to decide your and our dear sister's fate once she retook her birthright."

Jaime wasn't surprised. Ever since learning of Daenerys's invasion he wondered if he hadn't already known somewhere in the back of his mind that Tyrion would somehow play a part in his death.

"Well here I am," Jaime said, opening his arms and letting them flop back down to his sides again. "I am your prisoner and you are my judge. So what is my sentence then? Beheading? Hanging? Am I to be a feast for one of the girl-queen's dragons? Tell me, brother, so that I can prepare myself for the end. I would hate to deprive you and your new queen of a good show at my execution." Jaime felt strangely calm about the thought of death. For so long he felt like he'd been running from the Stranger and his cold fingers. To finally have death come to him in the form of his little brother was almost a relief.

Tyrion gave a hollow chuckle, shaking his misshapened head. "You mistake me, Jaime. I have no desire to kill you. To kill you would rob me of the satisfaction of your punishment. It is true you deserve to die, both for your crimes of kingslaying and incest - on those two points I wholeheartedly agree with you. Daenerys was a bit disappointed when I told her my judgment on you would not be for those crimes."

"Then what crime do you plan to punish me for?" Jaime asked, curious.

"For one a little more personal than the one you gained your infamous reputation for," Tyrion said. His mismatched eyes bore into Jaime like ice-cold daggers of green and black. "I plan to make you suffer as I have suffered all these long years for the girl I'd loved and lost."

"Tysha?" Jaime said, stunned. "That is what you plan to punish me for? I told you I was ordered by Father to tell you those lies that she was really a prostitute. It was not my idea. I have lived with the guilt of keeping the truth from you longer than I care to admit."

"And yet at no point over the course of those long years did you ever feel guilty enough to come to tell me before." A fire had crept into the Imp's voice, steely and tempered with the smoldering heat of hatred and betrayal. "Daenerys fulfilled her promise to me to let me chose your punishment and that is what I chose for you to suffer for. I am going to see to it that you feel the same anguish I did when the girl I loved was taken from me and given to others to be treated like filth." Tyrion turned towards the door and called over his shoulder, "Bring in the woman!"

In a daze, Jaime followed his brother's gaze towards the door as two large, hairless men in loincloths and spiked helmets - Unsullied, the legendary warrior eunuchs of the east, Jaime realized with a start - came into the cell, dragging something between them. It took Jaime a moment to realize that that something was a person, and none other than the warrior maiden of Tarth.

"Brienne," Jaime breathed in horror.

Brienne was naked, her knees bloody from being dragged along the ground by the Unsullied. She had clearly been beaten. Jaime counted numerous bruises turning different shades of green and yellow at the edges from age, and half a dozen half-healed welts crisscrossing her broad back and shoulders like the design of some intricate scrollwork. Brienne's hair hung around her face in tangled, unwashed ropes of blonde. Old blood the color of pudding still crusted the back of her head from where the corsair's pommel had sent her reeling into unconsciousness what felt like half a lifetime ago. With no tunic or armor to hide the work of her torturers, Jaime could see every one of Brienne's ribs protruding from her sides, as if her skin had shrunk several sizings too small for her large frame. Jaime wondered if they had even bothered to feed her at any point over the last fortnight, she'd grown so thin and gaunt. What little the gods had granted her in the way of teats stood out against her wasted frame and could have almost been called real breasts. Every inch of her was covered with dirt and filth. Her entire body shook from the chill of the surrounding stone walls.

Jaime instinctively moved towards the almost unfamiliar wreck of his companion. "Brienne," he whispered in numbed horror.

"Keep your distance, ser, or I will order these Unsullied to strangle the girl right here in front of you," Tyrion coldly warned him. Jaime reluctantly stopped his advance and stood in the middle of the cell. The phantom fingers of his right hand itched to reach out and push the tangle of matted blond hair back from Brienne's dirt-smeared face.

_Wench… what hell have I led you into?_

Weakly, Brienne raised her head. Her wide blue eyes stared up at Jaime, frightened and confused. For half a heartbeat she reminded the Kingslayer of a young child pleading for help. "Jaime," she whispered through blood cracked lips.

Tyrion took a step closer to Brienne and leaned closer to her. Even kneeling and bent forward by her guards, Brienne still seemed to tower over Tyrion. "I must admit, brother, this is not the type of woman I ever expected you leaving our dear sister for." He reached out and fingered a rope of matted blonde hair hanging alongside Brienne's scarred cheek. "I have to say your standards in woman have fallen quite a bit since the last we saw each other. But then again, who is a noseless dwarf to judge when the only women I can find to warm my bed are whores and naïve crofters' daughters?"

For her part Brienne did not flinch away from the Imp's touch, nor lower her eyes in shame at the dwarf's cruel words. Instead she silently glared at him with her big blue eyes in stony silence. Any thoughts or fears she might have harbored were hidden behind a defiant dirt-streaked mask. Though naked, bruised and beaten, she was not yet broken.

Tyrion chuckled lightly under his breath and stood straight from her, letting Brienne's tangle of hair fall back against her cheek. "She is as scarred and ugly as me. In a different world the Maid of Tarth and I might have been perfectly suited for each other aside from the fact she'd probably crush me in bed on our wedding night. But just as my Tysha had had the misfortune of losing her heart to a deformed imp, your maid has had the misfortunate of - however unlikely - winning the Kingslayer's affection."

Jaime's heart pounded against the inside of his ribs. His left hand was clenched into a shaking fist by his side. His right stump quivered with the force of restraining himself from lunging at them and tearing Brienne away from his brother and her captors.

"I don't know what you're talking about. The wench means nothing to me. She is just some stupid girl trying to play knight. She decided to latch herself onto me after Renly and Catelyn Stark met their deaths. As if I would ever care for a woman as ugly and scarred as her anyway. I've just been using her to track down Sansa Stark."

Jaime tried to make himself believe his own lies to make his bluff more believable, but the desperate waver in his voice immediately gave him away. Tyrion stared at him with a knowing smile, his head quirked to the side as though amused by his older brother's failed attempt at deception.

"Just let Brienne go," Jaime pleaded, dropping all previous pretexts. "She has nothing to do with your spat with me. She is innocent in what happened to Tysha. Your grievance is with me."

"Tysha was also innocent. Her only crime was loving an ugly dwarf. Yet it was she who ultimately paid the price and was made to pleasure an entire garrison by our lord father's command. As punishment for your own part in my first wife's shame that same shame will be bestowed onto your own chosen woman in redress for the crime of your silence."

"This is madness! It was not I who sentenced Tysha to the guards!" Jaime bellowed, panic stealing unbidden into his voice. He could not let this happen. He'd once warned Brienne what fate usually awaited female prisoners. He'd saved her once from being raped by Vargo Hoat's men when they'd been captives of the Bloody Mummers, but he could think of nothing to say or offer in way of a bribe to convince his brother to forego his plan now.

"No, Jaime," Tyrion gravely informed him. "This is justice. The Queen's justice leveled down on you by me by leave of her majesty. If you ask me, justice has been a long time in coming and much overdue."

Jaime's eyes darted between Brienne and the imp.

"Jaime…" Brienne croaked in a voice hoarse from want of water and thickened with growing fear. "Jaime, please…"

"Tyrion, I beg you, do not do this." Jaime knew he was openly begging now, but did not care. His reputation already meant nothing. What did it matter if men whispered and laughed about how the once feared Kingslayer begged on his knees to protect the chastity of the ugly, stubborn Maid of Tarth. If doing so spared Brienne such a fate he did not think it too steep a price to pay. "For any love you still have for me from our childhood, Tyrion, please do not go through with this. If you must punish someone for what happened to Tysha, punish me. Just please do not harm Brienne."

Tyrion coldly met his gaze. "I am punishing you by doing this, brother, although you still do not seem able to see it. I plan to harm Brienne no more than Father harmed Tysha with his order. Unlike Father, however, I mean to return Brienne to you after the queen's men are done with her. That way you can be reminded of your crimes every time you look at her."

"Tyrion, _please!_" Jaime cried, panic robbing him of all care for appearances or bearing.

His brother ignored him and with a sharp flick of his wrist motioned to the two Unsullied holding Brienne. Together they wrestled the large woman onto her feet.

"Jaime!" Brienne cried, thrashing against her captors' hold. She viciously lashed out a foot and kicked the Unsullied on her right in the shin. If she had done that to any other man, he would have fallen writhing to the ground, clutching his leg. But the bronzed eunuch seemed to feel her hit as much as he would have a fly landing on his shoulder. The other eunuch, drawing back his hand, smashed it into the side of Brienne's face, snapping her head around and making her momentarily break off her struggles.

"Brienne!" Without thinking, Jaime lunged forward and grabbed hold of Brienne's flailing hand as the Unsullied guards continued to drag her backwards towards the door. Their hands clutched each other in mutual fear and desperation. Not for the first time Jamie wished he had a right hand again so he could hold onto Brienne's even tighter. For half a second their eyes met - Brienne's full of fear and Jaime's full of apology and helpless agony.

Before Jamie could do anything to free Brienne from her captors' hold, he felt one of the Unsullied guards snake a hand in between him and Brienne and firmly push him away as if he was nothing more than child. His and Brienne's hands were torn apart as he went flying backwards. One second he'd felt the reassuring sweaty crush of Brienne's hand around his own, then a moment of weightlessness before he unceremoniously crashed into the opposite wall of the cell with a sickening crunch. He bonelessly slid down against the wall to the dirty mound of straw piled against its base.

"_Jaime!_" Brienne's shrill cry cut through Jamie's daze and startled him back to himself. The two Unsullied were still dragging Brienne out the door, the large maid struggling as much as she could between them. But as starved and beaten as she was she could not offer much in the way of resistance.

"Take her to the barracks," Tyrion curtly informed them. "Let the men have her for the night."

"Brienne! No!" Mustering his strength, Jaime crawled to his knees and then his feet just in time to see Tyrion step through the door after the Unsullied and their struggling captive. The dwarf paused on the threshold and turned around to offer Jaime one last look. Jamie almost faltered at the light shining in Tyrion's mismatched eyes. They reminded Jamie of old Mad King Aerys when he was in the grips of one of his fits. He recognized that look of sadistic glee burning like dragon fire in the back of his brother's eyes. Jamie couldn't help but wonder if some of the Dragon Queen's family madness hadn't somehow rubbed off onto Tyrion over the course of their time together.

"Until we see each other again in hell, brother," Tyrion mocked with a formal bow before the door to Jamie's cell slammed shut between them and Jamie heard the rattle of the gaoler's iron keys in the lock. He could still hear Brienne's cries as she struggled against the Unsullied fading into the distance through the door.

Jamie rushed to the door and smashed his fist and the scarred stump of his right hand against the wood. "Brienne! Brienne! _Tyrion! _You bastard! Bring her back! Tyrion!" Jaime roared. He helplessly pummeled the door with his hand and stump. "Brienne! _BRIENNE!_"

Jamie did not know how long he railed and kicked at the door - interchangeably cursing, pleading and bargaining with his brother for mercy - until his throat was raw from screaming and his voice as rough as tree bark. His eyes were swollen. Although he had no mirror to check his reflection he was sure they were bloodshot as well. He did not remember when he began to weep, but when he finally slumped to the ground at the base of the door in helpless defeat, his cheeks were wet and streaked with tears and his hand and stump bloody from pounding on the wooden door.

He had failed her. He had failed her. He had _failed._ Just like he had with everything else important in his life.

There is no way to tell the passage of time in the darkness of a cell, but it felt like days, weeks, months had crawled by before he heard the heavy tread of footsteps approaching his door once again. He weakly scrambled to his feet.

_Please,_ he begged to the Seven or whatever god he thought might be close enough to hear his pleas. _Please don't let Tyrion have done it. Please let it all have been some kind of bluff. Brienne… I'm so sorry. This was all my fault._

The rattle of keys sounded in the lock and the heavy wooden door swung inward with a squeal of rusted metal. The same two Unsullied guards as before stood on the other side of the threshold, a limp form held between them. With all the care they would toss a sack of grain onto the back of a wagon with, they shoved Brienne through the door at Jaime and immediately slammed the door close behind them.

Brienne stumbled and pitched forward, too weak to stand or maneuver her own limbs. Jaime caught her as best he could with one hand and gently eased her naked form down the ground. He knelt beside her and cradled her head to his chest with his bleeding stump. The shallow whistle of her breath ghosted against his chest between blood-cracked lips.

"Brienne? Brienne, answer me," he called, shaking her roughly by the arm.

There was a murmured groan before her eyelids fluttered open to look up at him. They were haunted and pained. "Ja… mie?" she croaked. Her voice was so weak Jamie instinctively clutched her tighter.

In the semi-darkness of the cell he took stock of Brienne's battered form. She was covered with dirt, filth and sweat. Bruises the color of overripe plums patterned her naked body in a tapestry of pain. Purple rings encircled her wrists and ankles while the disturbingly clear outlines of hands and fingers wrapped around the curve of her arms, legs and hips. Dried blood caked the inside of her thighs - the smeared remains of her precious maidenhead.

_Oh gods… Brienne, I'm so sorry…_

"Forgive me," Jaime croaked. "Gods forgive me, Brienne. I'm so sorry."

Brienne did not answer except to curl closer to the Kingslayer's chest, burying her face in the front of his filthy tunic. "I feel so dirty," she mumbled into his chest. "I tried to do what you told me to, Jaime - to go away in my mind. To find a happier place." Her fingers feebly clutched at the folds of his clothes. "It did not work…"

"Gods forgive me," Jaime groaned in anguish. Gently prying Brienne's fingers from him, he eased her backwards onto the floor. He tried to ignore the stab of pain that went through him at her agonized gasp as she was shifted onto her back. Despite her size, Brienne suddenly seemed haggard and small - a frail injured creature. "Stay brave, my lady," he murmured as he fumbled for the bottom of his tunic. Gripping the edge of it, he tore off a length of cloth. He grabbed the mug that had come with his last meal sitting in the one corner of the cell. Several fingers of stale water still filled the bottom of it. Dunking the strip of cloth he'd torn from his shirt into it, Jaime began to carefully clean the blood and dried semen from the inside of her legs, ever mindful of the angry purple bruises littering her skin. He could never bathe her as well as he wanted to with such meager resources, but he refused to make her wear her rapists' residue a single moment longer than she had to. Each wince or muffled gasp of pain from Brienne was a physically stab of pain to his own heart as he worked.

"Do not call me a lady, Kingslayer," Brienne rasped. Her voice was thick with exhaustion, although strangely numb of any notable emotions. "Not now…"

Despite her obvious pain and the added chafe of Jaime scrubbing away the remains of her attackers' taint, Brienne's eyes did not well with tears, nor did she seem to be fighting back sobs. She seemed almost… detached from her rape. Perhaps it was because of all the warnings she'd received since deciding to join Renly's army and then later as a maid traveling by herself on the road of what might come to pass to her maidenhead if she did not take care. Perhaps somewhere in the back of her mind she had always expected she would someday be raped. Perhaps she had come to accept that possibility as an expected given. Whatever the case, Jaime once again found himself in awe of the warrior woman's strength. Over the years he had seen knighted men break down and weep for far lesser reasons.

"You are my lady," Jaime murmured as he delicately dabbed and scrubbed at Brienne's battered form. "Even if I do not always address you as such, you will always be my lady. That I swear to you on my honor."

Brienne did not respond with any jab questioning the worth of a promise made on the Kingslayer's honor as Jaime expected her to. Instead, she stared up at him with her wide blue eyes, their inner light faded and tired.

Tossing the soiled rag away from them into the farthest corner of the cell, Jaime reached behind him to the pile of dirty straw that served as his sleeping pallet and grabbed the threadbare length of wool his jailers had given him as a blanket. He shook it out over Brienne and draped it over her nakedness. She was still covered in dirt and a layer of other filth Jaime did not want to think about, but he'd managed to clean the worst of it away. Carefully, so as not to jar Brienne's injuries anymore than he already had, he wrapped the edges of the blanket around her and once again drew her limp body into his arms. Brienne did not fight his ministrations and willingly accepted the comfort of the Kingslayer's chest. It was strange how quickly Jaime had come to consider that her place beside him. Jaime felt her begin to shiver under the thin shift of wool. But whether that was from cold or lingering horror of what she'd just survived Jaime could not say. Brienne still seemed to be in shock. He pulled the edges of the blanket as tightly as he could around her, but it still was not enough to completely swaddle Brienne's impressive frame. Jaime tried to make up for its deficiency with his own presence and clutched Brienne closer. It was the first time he'd ever held her like this. Jaime realized he'd wanted to do this for quite some time now. Brienne had never seemed like a woman who particularly yearned for physical closeness and, until now, Jaime had refused to recognize his own feelings for the brawny maid. It tore at him to think it had taken Brienne being violently raped to make him realize just how much she meant to him.

"Forgive me, my lady," Jaime murmured into the tangled snarl of straw-blonde hair tickling the underside of his nose. "I swear to you you will have justice for this. If it is the last thing I do I swear I will spear my little imp of a brother through his twisted black heart for what he's done to you."

For a moment Brienne did not answer. Then a hesitant, tired nod. "Do not make promises you cannot keep, Jaime," she mumbled into his chest. Her words were garbled and slurred. She was already drifting away from him into the blissful black embrace of unconsciousness. Jaime did not urge her to try and stay awake. Better to let her sleep and forget the horrors she'd endured, at least for a little while. At least she seemed to feel safe there in his arms despite the abuse she'd just suffered at the hands of countless other men.

"This promise I will keep," he swore into her tangled hair as he felt Brienne go limp in his arms and slump against him. "If I do nothing else with the remaining time the gods grant me on this earth, you shall have justice."

Yet why, Jaime reflected in the darkness as he held Brienne to his chest as if by doing so he might somehow protect her from the cruelty of the world, did he wonder if he did fulfill his promise to Brienne if it would really do anything to make up for what Brienne had been forced to suffer because of him, because the Beauty of Tarth had ensnarled the Kingslayer's heart. Nothing he could do would ever restore Brienne's virtue or erase the memories of the men who'd so violently taken their pleasure from her from her mind. Even if he slew Tyrion and fulfilled his promise to Brienne with the dwarf's blood, it would never allow Brienne to return to being the same naïve young maid she once was. She was now sullied and used. Her maiden virtue nothing more than a red smear on the rag Jaime had thrown into the corner of the cell.

_But mine_, Jaime reminded himself. _At least for as long as she can still stand to look at me she is still mine. _Sullied and used she might be, but not broken. Never broken. It was the one trait Jaime loved about her more than anything else. Nothing could break the Maid of Tarth. Not even rape handed down on her as punishment for his own misdeeds. As long as Brienne did not push him away or despise him for his role in her attack, he would not abandon her. As long as she let him remain near her and comfort her as best as he knew how, Jaime would never leave.

And at least for now, as Jaime sat there in the cold darkness of their cell with Brienne awkwardly huddled against his chest, that was enough.

Thoughts, comments, questions? Reviews are always welcome.

-LAXgirl


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